


Honeycomb

by Raindropsonwhiskers



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Altered Mental States, Dark Doctor (Doctor Who), Dark Thirteenth Doctor, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Don't Judge Me, Emotional Manipulation, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/F, Gaslighting, Mind Manipulation, Minor Character Death, Power Dynamics, Psychological Horror, Telepathy, The Doctor (Doctor Who) Uses They/Them Pronouns, Whump, and let missy be more evil, but its just an elaborate excuse to psychoanalyze the doctor, but like not on purpose, gratuitous use of honey as a metaphor, i know the tags make it look like it might be, misuse thereof, of the highly unhealthy variety, this is not smut, to the aforementioned telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:48:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26480668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raindropsonwhiskers/pseuds/Raindropsonwhiskers
Summary: In the end, it's almost too easy. For all the centuries, all the plans, the Master has spent trying so very hard to convince the Doctor to join them… it's so, so simple, really. Right time, right place, right gentle touch to the delicate, still-malleable parts of the Doctor's brilliant mind, and voila! Just like that, they're what they've always been meant to be.
Relationships: The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who), Thirteenth Doctor/Missy
Comments: 8
Kudos: 38





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Look. I have nothing to say in my defense. This is not happy or fluffy or cute. It is purely because I think there is not nearly enough dark fic for this ship, and because there's so much untapped psychological horror in the concept of Time Lords latching on to the first person they see when they regenerate. Please please please read the tags and enjoy!

In the end, it's almost too easy. For all the centuries, all the plans, the Master has spent trying so very hard to convince the Doctor to join them… it's so, so simple, really. Right time, right place, right gentle touch to the delicate, still-malleable parts of the Doctor's brilliant mind, and voila! Just like that, they're what they've always been meant to be.

Missy is distracted when the Doctor falls out of the sky and into her arms. Freshly escaped from the disaster that is Skaro in the wake of Davros' long overdue death, on Earth again for lack of anywhere better, still simmering with anger that the Doctor managed to save  _ Clara, _ perfect, sweet Clara, far too controlling and too much like him for that to end in anything but tragedy.

And then there's a rush of air, and Missy glances upward. Above her, growing closer every second, is a humanoid shape, falling through the dark sky. At first, she's tempted to just let them hit the ground and go  _ splat, _ but then her mind lights up and she realizes exactly who that shape is. How the Doctor keeps doing this to themself, she'll never know - though, the first time was a little bit her fault, she will admit. He'd deserved it, though.

As annoyed as she is with the Doctor, she's hardly going to let them die if this isn't one of her own murderous plots. She's sweet like that. Missy points her umbrella at the sky, activating an antigravity field that slows the Doctor's descent until they land lightly in Missy's outstretched arms.

She can  _ taste _ the Artron energy flaring off of them, now, intoxicating and sharp on her tongue. They're unconscious, at least for now, but their mind is racing a mile a minute. The Doctor never did regenerate neatly.

Missy smiles. This could be quite the opportunity.

They wake up in a bed, swamped by thick blankets and soft pillows. Is that normal? They can't quite recall. Last thing they knew, they were burning, falling,  _ crashing, _ too fast too fast they're not going to make it-

And then… darkness. Thick blankets and soft pillows and a face, concerned and leaning over theirs, dark hair loose and framing pale skin and blue eyes. She's familiar, just on the edge of their brain - brains? - and she makes them sad.

"Oh, finally," she says. "You were out for  _ ages. _ I was getting so bored."

"M'sorry," they mumble. They don't want to upset her. Or, no; she upset them. They blink. That can't be right, why would they be apologizing then? "Who're you?"

"Why, I'm Missy," she replies, kind but with an edge of… something. "I'm your best friend, dear."

Right. Of course. How could they forget Missy? How could they forget desperate hands holding their own, lips on theirs like a force of nature; wanting and wanting and _wanting_ but never quite _getting,_ a pain like being killed but it isn't physical, just the sting of hunger.

"Missy," they echo, a bit like a prayer.

They cough, sharp and hacking, and a small cloud of golden light puffs from their mouth, hovering in the air for a moment. Gently, Missy reaches out and runs her fingers through it, dissipating the shimmer into the dimness of the room. Her eyes reflect the gold glow for a moment before it fades.

"Now, I'm afraid you're going to need to stay put," she says, and she does sound genuinely regretful. "You've just had a nasty fall, not to mention you're still all muddled up inside. So you just lay here, and I'll take care of you, hmm?"

That feels the wrong way 'round, they think. They can't be sure, their brains are so foggy with gold. And after all, didn't Missy just say they were all muddled up? Surely they can trust her, so surely she must be right.

They nod, still a bit bleary. "Okay, Missy."

Missy smiles, and a delighted warmth pulses through their hearts. They like seeing Missy smile. It makes them smile too.

"Now, why don't you go back to sleep, dear?" she suggests. "Might help you recover a little quicker."

She reaches out one elegant hand and presses it to their temple, and a warm, dark feeling washes over their mind. It's so easy to sink into the depths of it, so easy to let go and let their eyes flutter shut.

"Good," Missy praises on the edge of their hearing, and they smile as they slip into unconsciousness again.

The Doctor's mind has always been a bit of an open book, as far as Missy is concerned. They can put up all the walls they like, but none of them could ever keep her out if she really wanted in. She's just that good. Now, though, freshly regenerated and vulnerable, their mind is laid completely bare.

Missy had managed to lay the groundwork, the low level changes, before they'd woken up. Simple things, really; a little push to their loyalty to her, a dampening of any initial panic they might have, pulling childhood memories close enough to the surface to mask any potentially unpleasant recent ones with that feeling of  _ trust _ they'd shared back then. It wasn't anywhere near complete, but between that and the confusion of regeneration, it would keep them sweet and subdued.

Once they woke up, she tested, made sure everything was working just right. It wouldn't do for them to panic or not trust her, after all. But they seemed perfectly content to stare up at her adoringly from the nest of pillows, perfectly content to let her send them into a deeper sleep while she made more important changes.

First on the list - those pesky morals. Missy knows she stands no chance of getting rid of them entirely, not after this long, but she can twist them. The Doctor's always had a cruel side, and if she just encourages the right parts, well. That could do the trick just as neatly. She tugs on that righteous anger that makes them so resplendent, teases a mental thread along their pride and conviction that they're Right and Good until it shivers to life, muffling as much of the guilt and self-doubt as she can while she goes. That might be a long-term project, she thinks, but one she's willing to undertake. She'll have the time.

Next is their love for humans, which is almost trickier than the morals to twist and hide away. After some searching, she manages to find a bit of condescending superiority, and  _ that _ she can certainly use. It's small, compared to the affection and awe surrounding it, but Missy coaxes it out and feeds it a little of her own disgust, letting it grow and siphon off of her mind until it's big enough to fend for itself. As she directs her focus elsewhere, she can feel it spreading, corrupting and twisting as it goes, and a little spark of pride lights up her hearts.

She makes a brief detour to their well of self-hatred, deep and dark and very, very useful. This, she intends to - what's that quaint human term? Ah, right - upcycle. It wouldn't do for her perfect new Doctor to not need her, after all. Missy weaves a soft net of warmth and affection over it, just enough that she can thicken or thin it as needed to keep them hungry and desperate for her. It's risky, of course, tangling their minds so close together like that, but by now it's a bit too late to turn back.

Now, what to do with those trite little pets of theirs? They're too important to cut out entirely, but perhaps… Missy's mind thrills with an idea.

Delicately, she begins to blur the memories, twisting just enough to turn them bitter and painful. Each death, each loss - already somewhat poisoned by her earlier work - becomes less about mourning and more about anger. It's terribly easy, that; this one is so very angry already. She stokes that flame as she goes, just for fun.

Finally, the pièce de résistance - the Doctor's memories of her, of the two of them. A little regret there, a hint more yearning here, a slight twist of perspective at the perfect time, and they're just right.

Missy draws back, looking at her handiwork. The Doctor is still, fundamentally, the Doctor; still clever, still bright, still eager to learn and explore and meddle. She's just made some improvements, undone some of the damage those humans inflicted those long millennia ago, when the Doctor ran off with his granddaughter and she couldn't get him back. After all this time, the two of them will finally fulfil that promise they'd made, sitting beneath a sky full of stars on a blanket of red grass; two young children too foolish and optimistic to know what was to come.

One last temporary modification, before she finishes - a blanket of hazy, unquestioning trust. Not permanent, because there'd be no  _ fun _ that way, but it should last just long enough for the other changes to settle into place. It'll keep the Doctor from panicking and trying to undo all of Missy's hard work, and probably getting themself hurt in the process, the poor dear.

She separates her mind from the Doctor's and looks down at their peaceful, sleeping face. Tenderly, she presses a kiss to their forehead, her lipstick smudging on their skin. They shift slightly, making a soft noise and reaching for her as she leans back. Already so needy, she thinks with a small smile.

Awareness comes slowly to them, like walking through honey. The thick golden haze urges them to stay asleep, but they  _ need _ to wake up. Something is wrong, their mind insists. Something is horribly, awfully wrong.

When they force their heavy eyelids open, Missy is watching them. She looks like she's judging them, somehow; seeing if they're fit for a task. They want to be, they realize. They want to help with whatever it is that's furrowing her brow with consideration.

Why were they so worried a moment ago? What was so urgent? They're trying to think through honey and gold, and it's so very hard.

"Something's wrong," they manage, forcing themself upward until they're leaning back against the headboard. "Missy, something's wrong."

Those beautiful blue eyes go wide. "Oh? What's wrong, love?"

"My head. It's- not right." They scramble for the words, trying to catch them before they sink away into the honey. "Sticky. Feels funny. Like a- like it's been rewritten."

Missy strokes her thumb soothingly along their cheek. They find themself turning into the touch, eyes flickering shut at the warmth it spreads across their skin.

"There, there, dear," she says. "Just regeneration sickness, that's all. You always did have it worse than everyone else, didn't you?"

Didn't they? That sounds right. And Missy wouldn't lie to them. Thus, the sticky, cloying feeling flooding their mind is just regeneration sickness.

Their worries slip back into the honey, and for a moment, they just bask in the feeling of her touch. It feels good, it feels  _ right, _ it feels- no, something  _ is _ wrong. They just can't remember what.

They have a name, they think. They have a life and memories that aren't soaked in too-sweet gold. They got here, somehow, and they know Missy from more than just the red-tinged childhood that they can recall so easily. If they could just remember their name… but surely she knows. She can help.

"I don't know my name," they whisper, even as they lean into Missy's touch. "Missy, what's my name?"

She smiles like she's just been given a present, something wonderful. "You're the Doctor, love. My Doctor. And I'm your Mistress."

That feels… right. They're Missy's, Missy is theirs, and they are the Doctor. Yes, that's certainly right. The Doctor - it feels very nice to be able to think of themself like that - relaxes again.

The two of them stay like that for a while; Missy perched on the edge of the bed, the Doctor looking up at her like she hung the stars in the sky. Finally, though, Missy pulls her hand away and stands. The Doctor frowns, reaching out into the empty air after her.

"Where are you going?" they ask, though it comes out far more desperate than they intended. "Are you leaving?"

They don't want her to leave; the mere thought makes their hearts twist like a scabbed-over wound being prodded at. Faint memories of a dull, grey forest flicker urgently at their mind, begging Missy to stay with them, a stab of betrayal as she turned and left them,  _ they died alone and Missy left them- _

"No, dear, I'm not leaving you," Missy says, chuckling a little. "Just getting you a little something to eat. It's important to eat after regenerating, you know that."

They know that. Why did they think Missy would leave them? She wouldn't. They're just muddled up. Regeneration sick and not themself yet. They should just let Missy take care of them and stop fretting.

The thoughts curl warmly around their mind, like they've always been there. Of course they have been - they're the Doctor's thoughts. Aren't they?

As Missy leaves the bedroom of the house she'd emptied of its previous occupants, she smiles. This had been even easier than she'd thought it would be. Something had happened, just before the Doctor regenerated. Something Missy was involved in, something that left them so very desperate for her to stay, even without a tug at that deep fear they have of people leaving.

There's still a few rough patches, she is willing to admit, that natural stubbornness fighting back, but it's nothing she can't work with. The important changes have already settled, becoming more permanent with every passing minute, and the heavy layer of trust is still in place. Now Missy just needs to run a few more tests, and perhaps have a bit of fun.

She can feel the timelines splintering and shattering as she walks, paradoxes knotting around each other angrily. What she's doing is breaking every law the Time Lords put in place to protect the Web of Time, not to mention all those less important bits of etiquette about 'not misusing your considerable telepathic talent to manipulate other Time Lords'. What she's done will change both of their timelines beyond repair.

Missy doesn't care. She's waited for centuries to have this chance, to have her friend back, and the laws of Time are hardly enough to stop her now.

Even knowing that Missy is just getting food, the Doctor panics a little when they're alone. Their mind keeps insisting that something is wrong, that this isn't right. Something is itching across their skin like sandpaper, a twisting and a  _ breaking _ in Time - capital T, it's that important - that they can feel.

They try to remember where they were before this, what was happening before they died and were reborn. It's all fuzzy, though, the details blurred and unfocused, only increasing the pain in their head when they search deeper. The fight to remember is an uphill battle, drenched in sharp emotions that make their hearts sting. Something terrible happened, they know that much. But that's all they can reach, all they can drag up to clarity.

They're on the verge of forcing an important memory - or, it feels important, from the way it scratches and begs to be let in - to coherence when Missy opens the door to their room and breaks their concentration. As soon as their focus wavers, the thought is gone again, and they can't- no, they don't need to remember. If it were important, Missy would have told them. The honey filling their mind thickens again, making their thoughts slow and sweet as Missy smiles down at them.

"Here you are, love," she announces, plopping a small metal tray onto the Doctor's lap. "Just toast and butter, I'm afraid, but you don't know what you like yet, so simplicity overrules taste for now."

The Doctor smiles. "Thank you."

They take a bite of the toast, hungrier than they realized they were. As they swallow, something sweet hits the back of their throat and mind, and they frown.

"Are you sure this is just toast and butter?"

Missy tilts her head, like a curious bird, and grabs the Doctor's hand. "What do you mean, love?"

"I thought I-" Even as they speak, the taste disappears, though the mental feeling lingers for a moment longer. "Never mind. Must be the new, uh…"

"Tongue?" Missy offers, raising an eyebrow.

"Tongue!" the Doctor grins. "Yes, that! New tongue, new tastebuds, new everything. New me, even. New, new, new, new…" They trail off as the word starts to lose all meaning, but start up again quickly. "Ooh, I'm feeling all buzzy now. Am I a rambler this time? Think I might be. What d'you think?"

For the first time since they woke up, they feel like themself. The thick, sticky gold clogging their thoughts is loosening and fading, and now they want to move and run and do all sorts of reckless things hand in hand with their best friend.

"I think," Missy says, "that I like this new Doctor."

She has that same look in her eyes as before, like she's comparing them against an unseen standard. Now, though, she seems certain they match up.

The Doctor's hearts beat a little bit faster. "I think I do too."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part two! Just as dark - darker, honestly - than part one. Again, please be safe reading this <3

The first time the Doctor sees the TARDIS again, after weeks of searching, they nearly cry with relief. Missy is wonderful - she makes their hearts sing, she feels like home, she floods their veins with honey-sweet love - but without their TARDIS, they still felt _lost._ They don't have their key, so they press both hands to the warm wood and whisper, "I'm sorry I left you. Forgive me?"

With a soft creak, the door swings inwards to a new and beautiful console room. Crystalline pillars branch outwards from the center, bathing the room in golden light. The Doctor falls a little bit in love.

They run their fingers across the columns as they walk, like they're trying to memorize them. Maybe they are, just a little. They've missed their ship.

"Come on, Missy!" they call, after a few moments. "She's redecorated, you should really see it!"

Missy stands outside the door, her arms crossed and her mouth set in a sneer.

"Your ship won't let me in," she snaps.

The Doctor frowns, looking at the central tower of crystal extending from the console disapprovingly. It pulses a deeper shade of orange, and the TARDIS pushes a mix of concern and stubbornness across her bond with them. The message is clear: Missy is staying outside.

They start to argue, and then they feel the distinct sensation of their ship poking around their brains. Across their bond flows curiosity, more worry, a hint of pity, comfort, and-

Pain lances across their mind, like it's being ripped apart, torn to bloody pieces and forced into a new shape. Without any input on the Doctor's part, they hit the floor knees-first, then crumple the rest of the way down. The steady thrum of the TARDIS' engines is the only thing they can feel that isn't _painpainpainpain_ echoing through their mind.

After - they don't know. Days? Hours? Years? - it becomes bearable enough to process the individual sensations. Everything hurts; every thought scrapes against their mind like sandpaper, every memory is _toobrighttoosharptoomuch_ , every emotion suddenly so sharp and so painful. It's overstimulation to the worst degree, and they can't escape it.

The TARDIS hums, reassuring and gentle even as she continues to prod at the Doctor's mind, moving and changing. They recoil, scrambling onto their hands and knees, trying to draw back from their bond with the ship. It doesn't work, that small force of will still too much for their aching mind.

And then, with a sudden _click,_ the pain stops. The pieces of their mind fall back into place, and everything is so much clearer now. Ever since they woke up, reborn and remade, their mind has been slightly _wrong._

They didn't notice - how did they not notice? How did they not feel the clinging, rotting sweetness sticking to every thought, muddling their mind and twisting it so horribly? With a shuddering gasp, the Doctor collapses back to the floor of the TARDIS, panting heavily.

"Oh dear," Missy sighs. "This is a conundrum, isn't it?"

 _Missy._ Missy, who helped them when they regenerated, who traveled with them, who- who did this to them in the first place, the Doctor realizes with a pang of hurt. Missy, who they'd spent decades trying to help, only to be betrayed and left for dead, and now _this?_ Now this- this new, fresh betrayal? They never thought she would stoop that low.

"I take it that barely-functional junkyard of yours undid all of my hard work?"

Fury drives them to their feet, face twisting into a snarl. "How could you?"

"Very easily, dear. Very easily. You're always so… malleable, when you regenerate, and you did just fall into my arms," Missy says lightly. She shrugs. "I only did what anyone would do in that situation, really."

"You- what did you do to me?" A wave of nausea crashes over them, sending their head spinning. Maybe standing was a bad idea. They lean one hand on the console and shake their head, trying to focus. "What did you do to my head?"

"A few tweaks here and there. A couple of improvements." She waves a hand loosely through the air. "Nothing major, honestly. You're still _you,_ after all. Just a little… retro, shall we say. And a little more agreeable."

"You manipulated my mind- my psyche, my memories." Saying it aloud somehow makes it so much worse. "Missy, that's low, even for you. That's…"

For the first time since the Doctor stepped into the TARDIS, Missy meets their eyes. Their legs go a little weak just from that, without any psychic pressure behind it at all.

"Darling, you should know by now that I. Don't. _Care_ about your morality," she says, enunciating each word sharp and clear. "So I made you more like me this time, instead of letting you try the other way - who cares? Now, your ship might have the home advantage, but _I_ had access to you when you were all sweet and new. So, my dear Doctor, when I tell you to come here, what are you going to do?"

They shake their head violently, the motion sending blond hair flying. Just to be sure, they tighten their grip on the console.

"I'm leaving, Missy," they say, trying to ignore the waver in their voice. "I'm leaving, and if you _ever_ come near me again I will do what I should have done years ago, and I'll kill you."

The last part is a lie, they know that already. But they just need to hold firm enough to get out, and then-

"No, I don't think so, love." Missy smiles like a predator. "I think you're going to obey your Mistress and come here."

Hypnotism laces every syllable, dripping from her voice like honey. Her words twine around the Doctor's thoughts; choking vines, curling tighter and tighter every second they try to resist. They curl their fingers around the edge of the console until it hurts.

"No," they grit out. "I'm not-"

"Doctor." All lightness is gone, leaving just pure, heavy will. "I said, _come here._ "

They break. They'd tried to fight back, but their clarity of mind is too new and fragile, and Missy's right. She's had weeks to condition them, weeks to weave an inescapable web of control over their entire mind, and not even the TARDIS can stop it. They step away from the console, ignoring the blaring of alarms and the flash of lights, and out the door, into Missy's arms.

"There," she croons, running one hand possessively down their back. "Isn't this much nicer? Aren't you happier with your Mistress?"

The Doctor makes an incoherent noise, somewhere between a sob and a whimper, into Missy's shoulder. They want to scream, they want to run back to their ship and leave, and more than anything they want this to be over.

"Don't worry, darling, it will be," Missy murmurs. "Just let me fix you up. Why don't you sleep it off, hmm?"

She presses a too-gentle kiss to their head, and warm darkness swallows them up before they can even struggle against it.

Missy sets the sleeping Doctor softly on the dirt, and then looks at the TARDIS. For a mostly noncommunicative object, the ship is quite good at radiating pure, undiluted hatred.

"We can do this two ways," she says casually. "I can put them back the way they were before you interfered, you can behave yourself, and you can see them again. Or, and I have no issue with this option, I can make a more severe change when I go poking around in their lovely mind, and I can wipe you out entirely and leave you to rot here. Which would you prefer?"

The feeling of enmity lessens slightly, and Missy smiles. "That's what I thought." She kneels down, pressing a hand to the Doctor's face, then pauses. "Oh, and in case you were planning to try again - I won't be letting them out of my control. If you so much as _touch_ their mind without my permission, I will have you in pieces and sold across every galaxy you've ever been to faster than the Doctor could protest. And they won't, because they are _mine._ Comprende?"

A gust of cold air pushes out of the open doorway, ruffling Missy's skirts. She'll accept it.

Threatening done, she sinks into the Doctor's mind. It's a mess now, she notes with annoyance. The TARDIS had done a sloppy job in her haste to undo Missy's work, and now their whole mental state is a total disaster. Really, the whole thing wouldn't have held up for more than a few hours before crashing down in a conflagration of self-hatred, repression, and guilt. Heaving a sigh, she gets to work. At least this time, she knows exactly what she plans to do.

The Doctor jolts awake on the floor of the TARDIS console room, staring up at the crystals and squinting in confusion. Their head feels thick and fuzzy, the memories of how they got there blurry and dull. Naturally, the first thing they do is look for Missy.

She's sitting on a hexagonal staircase, bright blue eyes fixed on them with a clinical sort of worry, but it disappears in favor of warmth when she sees them move. Maybe it was never there at all.

"What happened?" the Doctor asks, slowly sitting up. "Ugh, I feel like I drank a case of ginger beer last night."

Missy laughs. "Nothing that fun, love. You just got a little psychically overwhelmed when you reformed your bond with the TARDIS and passed out. It was quite funny, really."

That seems… not quite right, but the Doctor's memories seem to agree. And besides, Missy wouldn't lie to them. They stand, and their head throbs with pain.

"Are you sure?" they groan, leaning on the console for support. "My head feels awful. Can you-"

They don't even finish their request for a little telepathic assistance from Missy before she's walking toward them. She puts her hand below their chin, tilts their head up from where it had been bent forward, and presses their foreheads together.

Instantly, the pain disappears, smothered in a thick, sweet blanket. They sigh happily, sinking further into Missy's embrace as the pain fades.

The two of them stay like that for a minute, foreheads pressed together and eyes closed. The Doctor plays with a loose strand of Missy's hair, fallen out of the quick updo she had pulled it into that morning. Eventually, though, the urge to go adventure and do something exciting takes precedence over staying close to her.

"We should go somewhere!" they suggest, drawing back from the embrace and moving around the new console. "Somewhere… ooh! Valperius-Alpha, they've got these lovely oceans made of ink. Well, it's not actually ink, but it's close enough. They have the prettiest calligraphy there. And ice cream! Sort of."

"Oh, fine," Missy sighs, sounding more fond than annoyed. "If it keeps you entertained."

'Entertained' might have been an inaccurate word. At first, Valperius-Alpha had been peaceful. The two Time Lords had wandered the purple-stained beaches, taking in the dark ocean and enjoying the sweet almost-but-not-quite ice cream that was sold nearly every fifteen feet along the boardwalk.

And then a figure had grabbed Missy from behind, activated a teleport, and disappeared from sight in an instant.

Which brings the Doctor to now, sonic in hand and fury flooding their hearts as they prowl the halls of some dingy, half-collapsed hotel. They aren't really worried about Missy - she can more than handle herself, they know - but it's the principle of the thing. Someone tried to hurt their best friend, their _everything,_ and now that someone is going to pay.

A small noise catches their attention, a hissed breath from a few meters ahead. Their eyes fix on the open door it came from, and they slow to a creep, inching forward to peer inside.

Missy smiles at them, tied to a rotting wooden chair with a pathetic amount of rope. Another figure, humanoid and dressed in dark clothing, leaps to their feet when they see the Doctor. They pull a long knife from their belt and brandish it, but the way their arm wavers belies their lack of skill.

"I was wondering when you would come to rescue me, love," Missy says. She pouts. "I've been so dreadfully _bored._ Xander here isn't terribly exciting to talk to."

"I told you to stop talking!" Xander snaps, sounding more afraid than authoritative. "Just shut up! Now- you!" He points at the Doctor. "Give me all of your money or your girlfriend dies."

"You don't have to do this," they say softly. "We can help you."

Missy's eyes narrow, watching them closely.

"Just put the knife down, okay?" They point to the floor, curling their shoulders in and trying to look unthreatening.

Xander falters. "I-"

"If you just put the knife down, we can get you as much money as you need, Xander."

Slowly, he kneels and drops the knife to the ground. The Doctor smiles.

"See, wasn't that so much easier?"

And then, faster than he could possibly react, they snatch the knife off the floor and stab it into Xander's throat mid-anxious swallow until the steel hits bone. They yank the blade back out, leaving a gaping hole in his neck, blood already soaking into his dark shirt. When he tries to breathe, all that happens is a wet rasping noise as his lungs struggle to cope with the newfound opening.

Smiling pleasantly, the Doctor wipes the knife off on Xander's shirt. It's a good blade. They might keep it.

In one swift motion, they slice through the rope that is, theoretically, tying Missy to the chair. She stretches theatrically, rolling her head from side to side and letting the joints pop.

"Lovely work, dear," she praises, and the Doctor goes a little dizzy with glee. "Nice, clean wound, and he never saw it coming. Couldn't have done it better myself."

"Oh, uh." They think they're blushing. "I mean, thank you."

"Poor Doctor, you're all red," Missy says softly. "So eager to please, aren't you?"

If possible, they go even more red. It's ridiculous, really. They've heard Missy compliment them before. Just… something about this time specifically makes their hearts flutter. Maybe it's the adrenaline rush from killing Xander. Well, he isn't quite dead yet, and they can still hear him gasping wetly for air, but that's a mere technicality at this point.

"We should get out of here," they say after a moment. "I got blood on my shirt. Should probably wash it."

Missy hums and stands up from the chair. After rearranging her skirt, she plants one booted foot on Xander's chest and pushes him flat to the floor. Eyes huge and unfocused from the lack of oxygen and blood, he stares back.

"Now, if you say something nice, I'll let them end you quickly," she coos. "Think you can manage that?"

He opens his mouth, but all that comes out is a small bubble of blood that bursts and splatters his face. Missy tuts disapprovingly.

"Some people just don't have any manners," she sighs. "Well, neck wounds are a terrible way to die, but if you can't even bother to be polite, I guess we'll just have to leave you here."

For a split second, the Doctor's mind _twists._ Something is wrong, this is all wrong, they just killed a man and the most pressing worry they're having is about Missy's approval, all of this is _wrong-_

Just as quickly, the feeling is gone. Of course they don't feel guilty for killing Xander; he tried to hurt Missy. That's that.

"Come along, Doctor," Missy calls, giving them her hand. "Let's get you washed up, hmm? You've got blood on your face, too, love."

She wipes it off with her thumb, watching the still-liquid crimson drip further down her finger. Before they can think better of it - or even think at all, really - the Doctor leans forward and licks it off of her thumb.

Missy's eyes widen, and for a moment the Doctor is terrified they did something wrong. Then she smiles, softer than her usual sharp grin, like she's proud.

"Oh, I really did do a good job with you," she whispers. "You're _perfect._ "

Again, their hearts quicken and their head goes a little fuzzy. The words send a rush of honey through their veins and leave them breathless. It's intoxicating, this feeling, and they never want it to go away.

Missy lets them recover their footing before the two of them leave, going back to the ink-stained beaches, back to the TARDIS. She holds their hand, and the Doctor feels a bit like they're floating.

They nearly trip when their sense of time suddenly goes sharply _wrong._ Strands of time tear themselves out of the Web, branching off around them and forming dizzying fractals. Feeling a new secondary timeline split from the primary strands is never _comfortable_ , but this feels like being torn in two. Like drowning on dry land, like their lungs are suddenly full of the inky water mere meters away. Doubling over, they start to cough.

Missy stops, turning to look at them with annoyed concern. "If you're dying, I'm going to be very upset."

"No, just-" they cough again "- just something with the timelines. New one just branched off, did you feel?"

She frowns, stares into the distance for a moment, and then smiles, wide and toothy and delighted.

"Yes," Missy says. "I do. Doctor, I think this is a wonderful sign for the two of us."

The Doctor starts to protest that anything that could cause such a dramatic change is probably in need of stopping, when it occurs to them that it's really not their problem. The thought drips into their mind, slow but certain, and they can't find any will - any _reason_ to fight it.

By the time the coughing stops completely, they've forgotten all about seeing what might have brought about the split in the timelines. It can't be that important.

Missy likes to watch this Doctor sleep. She loves the way their hair stands out against the dark sheets of the bed, she loves the way they cling to her like they can't bear to let go, and more than anything she loves that their mind is so open to her like this. It always is, now, but she can't poke and prod around _quite_ as readily when they're awake.

As they curl up against her, one arm around her waist and the other clutching loosely at her hair, Missy dips into the Doctor's mind. She hides the memory of feeling the timeline split with ease, just to be safe. By now, the Doctor is so completely hers she isn't truly worried that they'll dig too deep into the splitting point, but it can't hurt to be thorough. After all, it would hardly do to have them realize that the murder in that disgusting little hotel was such an important turning point.

Final proof of their change, she supposes. The point of no return. Even if they did manage to push back against everything she's done to them - and oh, how she doubts they ever will, now - it would be too late. Time has changed irreparably.

While she meddles, she takes a moment to really admire her work. All by herself, she's turned the Doctor from a paragon of morality to the sort of person who would kill a man without hesitation, then lap up the blood from Missy's fingers without her even needing to push. Really, she thinks she should get some sort of award for that, though the Time Lord pressed against her side is certainly _re_ ward enough.

Oh, yes, she's going to have a lot of fun with her Doctor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed, drop a kudos and a comment!


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